


Reality is a drama queen.

by Pokeydotes



Series: It's the Little Things, Dude [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:47:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21724726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pokeydotes/pseuds/Pokeydotes
Summary: House fires happen all the time, right? That's normal?What about superheroes coming to the rescue, is that normal, too?Or the Parker's building catches fire and May gets to meet more of the Avengers.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: It's the Little Things, Dude [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565779
Comments: 9
Kudos: 375





	Reality is a drama queen.

May couldn’t really cook for shit, but she could bake cookies. Sort of.

As long as they were the kind you bought from the store, the cookie dough ready to go in little preformed squares. And as long as Peter was the one to set the timer.

But other than that, she could totally bake cookies.

It was a running joke, something Peter counted as a constant in his life: May couldn’t cook, but she still tried.

He was six years old the first time he heard the word ‘fuck’. Mary had laughed, her head thrown back as May pulled a blackened lasagna out of the oven. Peter didn’t remember if it was edible, but he did remember his mom standing on a chair, laughing as she tried to fan the smoke away from the smoke detector while May scowled and poked at the pan with a knife.

When he was nine, he watched as May stared at the remains of her high-end, non-stick, Teflon cooking pot and frowned. It had been a Christmas gift from Ben, one that Peter had helped wrap and put under the tree. May had used it twice before something that had started out as chicken curry _cemented_ itself to the edges. May had sighed, checked her bank account, and sighed again before dragging Peter to Macy’s to buy another identical pot. Peter had been forced to pinky promise never to tell Ben that the pot had to be replaced.

It was the day before Peter’s eleventh birthday when May decided it’d be fun to bake his cake that year. The night had ended with Ben driving around Queens trying to find a bakery that would sell last minute birthday cakes while Peter and May opened all the windows to air out the smoke and smell of charbroiled red velvet.

Peter was thirteen when Ben gave up and removed the batteries from the smoke alarm.

Now Peter was sixteen, lying in bed dreaming of Aunt May’s cookies and wondering why he’d forgotten to set the timer and trying to remember when Ben had replaced the batteries.

Except the high pitched shriek wasn’t a smoke alarm and the smell drifting in from under Peter’s door wasn’t burnt cookies.

“Peter!”

One of the draw backs of having been bitten by a radioactive spider was that sometimes things got turned up to eleven. It came in handy more often than not, sucked donkey dicks on occasion, and still, even after two years, took some getting used to.

Especially when first waking up.

And that was on a good day, with an alarm clock and the promise of poptarts and coffee.

Peter was out of bed the moment he registered his aunt’s panicked screams, his eyes watering, throat burning as the smoke filtered in. His senses were trying to process everything at once, that little tickle that was more a stab alerting him that something was wrong.

No shit.

When Peter was in first grade, he had learned all about fire safety. He knew he was supposed to feel the door, that he wasn’t supposed to open it if it was hot, and that the metal handle should never be touched.

Except Mr. Perkins hadn’t mentioned the sheer panic Peter would feel hearing his aunt scream his name.

The doorknob wasn’t hot, but the moment Peter pulled his door open he doubled over. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, and the sound of people screaming, sirens blaring, wood and cement shifting as they reacted to the law of thermodynamics…it all echoed in Peter’s head, melding together and threatening to send him over the edge.

“Peter!”

Peter coughed, put his hands over his mouth and tried to breathe in something other than smoke. “May?!”

“Oh my god, are you okay? You have to get out!” May was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, her hair pulled up in a lazy bun, her eyes wide as she stared over what was left of their living room.

The fire wasn’t high, but it had spread from the front door, down the length of their kitchen, and was currently ravaging their small sofa.

“Get out!” May yelled in between coughs. “I’ll meet you outside, go!”

Except Peter didn’t know how she planned to do that. The fire escape was on the other side of the living room, and last he checked she wasn’t the one who could climb up and down the side of a building.

Peter looked to his left, saw the fire reflecting in the living room window, heard the _crack_ of something that probably shouldn’t be cracking, and realized she was probably going to yell at him later for what he was about to do.

If they didn’t die first.

Which was kind of the plan.

“Stand back!” he ordered. He didn’t bother trying to take a deep breath. His lungs were burning, his throat was burning, the apartment was burning—breathing could wait until they were outside.

Hopefully.

Peter took a few steps back, guestimated the height of the fire, of the ceiling, figured he didn’t really have enough clearance, thought fuck it, and took a short, running start before bounding over the flames towards his aunt.

It was sort of the holy trinity of shitty circumstances. Between the lack of oxygen, his strained and overwhelmed senses, and the fact that the apartment was in flames, Peter counted it a win that he hadn’t broken his neck and his boxers didn’t catch fire, never mind the fact that he’d landed on his shoulder, hit his head, or that he’d just murdered his kidneys when his back collided with the door frame.

“What are you doing?” May was in panic mode. Her hands were up, fingers flexed as she stared at him, eyebrows as high as they could go. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

“Get on my back,” Peter told her, climbing to his feet and trying to ignore the pain shooting from hip to shoulder. “We gotta go, May.”

“You’re bleeding,” she pushed his hair back off his forehead and frowned. Her voice was high, breathy.

“May, listen to me,” Peter coughed, pushed her hands away, and grabbed her face, making sure her panicked eyes were focusing on him. “We have to get out of here. I need you to get on my back, okay?”

“Why?” she asked. But then she must have realized why, because her frown shifted from one of concern to a more familiar _are you fucking kidding me_?

“It’s that or burn,” he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her arm over his shoulder as he turned. “Piggy back, let’s go.”

There were mutterings that rhymed with _this is a terrible idea, oh my god,_ and _we’re gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay_ as she climbed onto his back. Peter made sure she was secure, her arms wrapped around his neck, her ankles locked in front of him before he jumped, fingers and toes sticking to the soot covered ceiling.

Those mutterings sounded a lot more like _holy fuck_ and _oh my god_ as she buried her face into the back of his neck.

The ceiling was hot, hinting that the floor above was on fire as well, and Peter tried not to think about Mr. Quinton and his wife, or the weird guy with three chihuahuas, or Steve from 12-C.

May first, then the others.

Peter had never carried someone on his back before, not when he was upside down. He’d also never had someone muttering a steady litany of holyfuckholyfuckholyfuck into his ear while doing so.

It was awkward, made all the worse by the flames dancing below them and the fact that Peter was moving on memory alone because he couldn’t see anything that wasn’t fire or smoke.

The window was hot to the touch, the flames close enough that there wasn’t really anywhere to step down without catching fire. Peter pulled the window open, said a silent prayer that no one was watching, and climbed out onto the fire escape. Upside down. Yeah, nothing to see here, folks. 

But that was the beauty of disaster; people were too busy _looking_ to actually _see_ anything. The air wasn’t any clearer out on the landing, the smoke and heat were still in the air, but Peter could see now. Better yet, he could _breathe_.

“Come on, baby,” May urged, gaining her feet and pushing Peter towards the stairs. “We gotta go,” and Peter was pretty sure he had been the one telling her that five minutes ago.

The street was crowded. Neighbors, policemen, firefighters, nosey onlookers, and news crews took up every square inch. The second they reached the sidewalk, they were being shepherded away from the building, being passed from fireman to fireman to police officer before someone pointed to a section of pavement that was clear and ordered them to sit down.

And then they were alone.

Or as alone as two people in the midst of crowded chaos could be.

Peter gave his aunt a cursory look over. Her hair was now a disheveled mess, her face was streaked with sweat and tears and soot. She was wearing one of Ben’s old shirts and a ratty pair of flannel shorts, and she had this look on her face. It was a mix of anger and grief and determination. And it was all directed at Peter.

“Stay here,” she ordered, her voice shaking. “Do not—”

“May, I have—” Peter began, but May cut him off. She shook her head, made this noise that was half sob, half growl.

“You don’t _have_ to do _anything_.”

“People are still inside.”

“The firemen will get them out.”

“I could help.”

“How?” she snapped, nostrils flaring, snot running as she tried not to cry. “How Peter? You don’t have your suit, you don’t have…you don’t have anything! Look at you!” she yelled, pushing angrily against his shoulder. “You’re barefoot, you’re in your underwear and a freaking t-shirt, Peter. They’re not going to let you charge into a burning building. They’re not—you aren’t going back in there.”

She sobbed again and buried her face in her hands.

Peter tried to argue but instead of a well-worded explanation for how he needed to help, all that came out was a series of hacking coughs.

May let her fingers slide down her face so that they were only covering her mouth. She was openly crying now. Her tears were streaking through the soot on her cheeks. “You don’t have your inhaler,” she murmured behind her fingers as her eyes looked worryingly from Peter to the fire.

Peter frowned.

“I don’t have asthma anymore, May,” Peter said softly, grabbing her shoulders. She knew this. “Remember?”

There was a moment where she looked confused, like she couldn’t understand what he was saying. But then she laughed, not a real laugh, more of a scoff. She took a step back, placed one hand on her hip while the other wiped at her running nose.

She stared at the fire, tears slowly falling but her breaths steadying. Finally, she looked at Peter and in a fiercely stern voice said, “You are not going into that building. I am not—you’re not leaving me. Do you understand?”

She had this look on her face. It was a look Peter had only seen once before, back when they’d just buried her husband and they both realized they were officially all each other had.

“You are not going back in there,” she repeated. “Peter, I swear to god—”

“Okay,” he agreed. Because yeah, they were all each other had. Peter looked up at the fire blazing across the street. They were _literally_ all each other had.

May was still going, her hands constantly moving through the air as she begged him, _ordered_ him. “Just let the firemen do it, please. I can’t—“

“I’m staying here,” Peter assured her. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her frantic rambling. “I promise.”

She tensed for a moment, eyes still hard as she searched his face, looking for the lie. The moment she realized it wasn’t there, she deflated, her face looking relieved.

“The firemen will help them,” she said, more as a reassurance than a plea.

“I know,” Peter lied.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” And suddenly they weren’t alone anymore.

Medics or not, May was not letting Peter out of her sight. She had a death grip on his hand as they sat on the sidewalk, an EMT shining lights in their eyes as they gasped greedily into the oxygen masks they’d been given.

Peter let the man look at the cut on his forehead, groaned when he pressed on it none-too-gently, and went through the routine of _yes, I can breathe. No, I’m not dizzy. Yes, I’m sure. No, I don’t want to go to the hospital. I’m fine. Go tend to someone else._

The man left them with their oxygen masks and a promise to be back. Neither knew what to say so they just sat there, watching their home burn.

“Parker!”

Peter shared a surprised and confused look with May before turning towards the sound of their name.

Happy Hogan was pushing his way through the crowd, his forehead wrinkled, face stern as he scanned the area. “PARKER!” he yelled.

“Happy?” Peter called back, standing and letting the oxygen mask fall to the ground. Happy turned and Peter could honestly say that he’d _never_ seen Happy look so relieved to see him.

Happy was wearing a pair of sweat pants and a faded t-shirt. He had on a pair of slip-on sandals and his hair was a disheveled mess. Add to that the hint of a five o’clock shadow and he looked every bit the image of a man that had been pulled out of bed in a hurry.

Happy’s eyes went from Peter to May, his shoulders falling in visible relief. “Okay,” he said, running his hand through his hair as he approached them. “Okay, you’re okay. That’s good. You are okay, right?”

“Yeah, we’re okay.”

“You’re bleeding,” Happy pointed to the knot on Peter’s forehead and frowned. “We talked about this, didn’t we? About you saying you’re okay when you’re not? That was an actual conversation.”

“I hit my head,” Peter admitted. Happy continued to frown. “And my shoulder…and maybe my back.”

May was frowning now. She lifted the back of Peter’s shirt. Her eyes widened, hinting that it looked as bad as it felt, but she didn’t say anything, just let the shirt fall and gave Peter a knowing, warning look that promised further discussion.

Happy narrowed his eyes, before letting them slide towards May. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she assured him.

“For real not hurt? Or not hurt like he’s not hurt? Because I don’t know if it’s a Parker thing or just a Peter thing.”

“It’s a Peter thing,” she said sourly, causing Happy to smile.

Oh look, Happy made a new friend.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asked.

“FRIDAY woke me up, said a fire had been reported at your address,” he started patting the pockets of his sweatpants, hands fishing for his keys. “Tony said to bring you to the tower. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“I thought Mr. Stark was out of town,” Peter said, following Happy through the crowd.

Happy already had his phone to his ear. He gave Peter a familiar annoyed glance and said, “He is,” before looking away and directing his attention to whoever was on the phone. “Yeah, Tony. I got them. They’re fine, kid’s a little banged up but he’ll probably be good as new tomorrow. Yeah, I know. I know. Have you met me? This isn’t my first rodeo. Yeah, I’ll call you.”

He hung up and unlocked the car. “A doctor’s gonna meet us at the tower,” he explained as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

Peter crawled into the backseat. “A medic already looked us over,” Peter explained.

“But it won’t hurt for a doctor to follow up,” May added, giving him a stern look as she climbed in beside him.

Happy smirked at Peter through the rearview mirror.

Great.

“Buckle up, kid.”

* * *

The sun was coming up when May finally managed to fall asleep. Her forehead was creased even as she slept. She was wearing a borrowed pair of Pepper’s pajama bottoms and one of Tony’s old AC/DC shirts. Her hair was damp from the shower, leaving a wet stain on the pillow as she tossed and turned.

Peter could still smell the smoke mixed in with the scent of expensive shampoo and deodorant.

The doctor had looked them over, poked and prodded and scanned and eventually gave them a reluctant all clear.

Happy had herded them towards Peter’s bedroom after that, urging them to take a shower and get some sleep.

“We’ll deal with everything tomorrow. There’s nothing more to do right now.”

He’d handed them the stolen clothes and left.

Peter glanced at the clock on the nightstand and frowned. It was just after six in the morning. He was tired, sore, _exhausted_.

But he couldn’t sleep.

He was sat in bed, back to the headboard as he stared around the room, the sun slowly rising through the window illuminating everything he owned in the world.

There were a few t-shirts in the closet, one pair of jeans that he’d outgrown during his last growth spurt, and a series of empty web canisters scattered on the desk. He didn’t really keep a lot of stuff at the tower. He never saw the point. He could always just bring what he needed with him.

Peter was starting to regret that decision.

May shifted in the bed next to him, made a sound half-way between a snore and a gasp, before sitting up, her eyes wide as she looked around.

She blinked at the sunlight and looked at Peter.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Maybe an hour.”

“Ugh,” she groaned as she let herself fall back onto the pillows. “I dreamed I couldn’t find you in the fire.”

“I’m right here.”

“I know.”

She sighed, took a steading breath that hinted she was trying not to cry and rolled so she was facing Peter. “Lay down, sweetie. You need to sleep.”

Peter felt himself laugh. “Yeah, I don’t see that happening, May.”

“Try.”

Peter took a deep breath, let it out through his nose, and shifted so that he was lying on his side, facing his aunt.

“We’re gonna be okay,” she said.

“I know.”

“It was just an apartment. Just things.”

“I know.”

She stared at him, reached out and pushed his hair off his forehead, her fingers tracing the bandage the doctor had placed on his head. “We haven’t done this in a while.”

Peter smiled. “I think I outgrew it.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, sounding sad. “You used to be our little cuddle monster. Remember that? You had to sleep between me and Ben, every night.”

Peter wrinkled his nose at the memory. “Not every night.”

“Every night.” May smiled. “But then we got you a bunk bed and you thought that was the coolest thing ever. Then it was just some nights.”

Peter laughed and closed his eyes. Ben had showed him how to make a fort, draping his Captain America sheets down from the top bunk and lining the edge of the frame with his action figures and toy trucks.

It had been enough to coax Peter into sleeping in his own bed. Mostly. But there were still nights when even a magical fort hadn’t been enough. Peter’s parents had just died, and no amount of toys and glow in the dark stars or Jedi action figures was going to make it better.

Ben and May had understood that.

Then Ben died.

Peter remembered waking up to find May sleeping on the couch one night, face tearstained as she explained that her bed was too big, too empty. Peter had dragged his blanket from his room, wrapped it around them both as they huddled together and cried. They had eventually fallen asleep, shoulders pressed together and their heads tilted back on the couch at an awkward angle.

There was just something about loss that demanded comfort.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

At least no one died this time.

* * *

“How’s the noggin?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Tony was sat at the counter, steadily picking out bamboo shoots from a container of Chinese takeout with a pair of chopsticks. “Your head? I’m assuming that band-aid isn’t for aesthetics.”

“Oh,” Peter reached up and pulled the bandage from his forehead. “It’s fine. I thought you were out of town.”

“ _Were_ being the key word.” Tony popped a piece of broccoli in his mouth. “Flight landed a few hours ago. You’ve been asleep half the day.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologised. He’d woken up a few minutes before, surprised that he’d even managed to fall asleep. A quick glance at the clock on the microwave showed it to be just past 2:00.

“Don’t be. You needed it.” Tony stabbed the chopsticks in his food and set it to the side. He folded his arms on the counter and gave Peter a studying look. “You okay?”

Peter shrugged and climbed onto the stool next to Tony. “I guess so. I mean, we’re not hurt.”

Tony arched a brow.

“We’re not seriously hurt,” Peter amended, fingers trailing over the knot on his head. He didn’t know what it looked like, but it _felt_ like it was healing. “We’ll be okay.”

Tony sighed, passed Peter the container of food and said, “Yeah, you will.” He walked to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. “Chug this,” he ordered, handing the bottle to Peter. “You sound like you’ve been smoking a pack a day.”

Peter frowned but did as he was told.

“Your aunt’s on the phone with the insurance company,” Tony said pushing the food closer to Peter, encouraging him to eat. “I’ve been informed that me buying you a new apartment is out of the question.”

Peter laughed as he struggled to pick up a piece of shrimp with the chopsticks. “Yeah, I could have told you how that would go. May’s not big on taking charity.”

“So I’ve heard. But she has agreed that you need new clothes. Apparently she doesn’t want her baby boy going to school wearing Iron Man’s hand-me-downs.”

Peter glanced down at the oversized Stark Industries t-shirt he was wearing. He hadn’t even thought about school. His backpack was gone, his textbooks, his computer…

“My suit’s gone,” Peter realized.

“Maybe,” Tony shrugged. “It’s supposed to be fireproof, if not I can build you another. I’ve got a call in to the fire chief, he’ll let me know when it’s clear for us to go do a walkthrough, see if we can salvage anything.”

“We can do that?”

“If the building’s still structurally sound, yes,” Tony said, grabbing the chopsticks out of Peter’s hand and giving him a fork. “If not, I’ll make a few more calls. Now eat.”

Peter ate.

Then he showered again before he and May jumped in the back of Happy’s car, Tony’s credit card in May’s pocket.

“Just the essentials, Stark. We don’t need more than that right now. Just a few things. The adjuster said it should only be a couple of weeks before the check is cut.”

“Got it. Get the kid some new undies, some shoes, shirts, one of those plastic lunch boxes with my face on it.”

“Tony—“

“Just take the card, May.”

May was studying the price tag on a pair of jeans. Her jaw was clenched and she was blinking fast. Peter knew she was about to cry.

“May,” he said, grabbing the jeans and throwing them in the shopping cart, “My suit cost more than all the clothes in this store combined. I’m pretty sure he’s not even gonna blink at a thirty dollar pair of jeans.”

May stared at him. “How much was that suit worth?”

“Millions,” Peter told her. “I don’t know the exact price but it was up there.”

May blinked.

Then she grabbed two more pair of jeans and threw them in the cart.

“Look they have your nerd shirts,” Happy murmured, holding up a graphic tee with the words ‘NEVER trust an ATOM; they make up EVERYTHING’ emblazoned on the front. “I got you one of each,” he said as he dumped a pile of colored shirts into the basket.

“I can pick out my own clothes you know?” Peter said grabbing a pack of underwear and adding it to the pile.

“Whatever. I’m going to get you a backpack. You want one of the ones with a cartoon character on it or you want to pretend to be a grownup?”

“Ugh.” 

* * *

“Why does Ned Leeds have my phone number?”

Peter was sitting on the floor of his room, trying to sort out his newly bought things from his aunt’s. He looked up at Tony and frowned. “Uhhh…”

Tony was leaning in the doorway, his phone in his hand, his eyes narrowed at Peter. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t pass out my number?”

“I didn’t…”

“Well, he’s sent me no less than forty text messages in the last fourteen hours and has left a total of…seven voicemails. So either you or Happy let it slip.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Whatever. Here, just call him, let him know you’re okay,” Tony tossed his phone to Peter before turning to leave, “And maybe clue him in on what will happen if he gives that number out.”

Peter looked at the list of text messages, cringed in second-hand embarrassment, and hit the call button.

Ned answered immediately. “ _Hello?”_

“Dude, how did you get this number?”

“ _Oh my god, you’re alive! Peter, man, my mom saw it on the news! MJ’s been going crazy and your phone keeps saying it’s disconnected_.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s nothing but charcoal now.” Peter groaned and decided he didn’t want to think about what his phone probably looked like. “But we’re fine. We’re staying at the tower.”

“ _Dude, do you live with Iron Man now?”_

“Uh…sort of?” Peter looked around his room. “For now anyway.”

“ _That is so cool.”_

“Dude...”

_“I mean, it totally sucks that your apartment burned down, but still…you’re like living with Iron Man? Are the other Avengers there? Do you have to share a bathroom with the Hulk?_

Peter rubbed tiredly at his forehead. He didn’t really have the energy to deal with Ned’s Avenger induced glee at the moment. “Everyone has their own space, Ned.”

 _“Yeah, I mean that makes sense,”_ Ned said, sounding way too disappointed. _“Oh, my mom wants to know if you guys need anything. Like clothes or a toothbrush or stuff?”_

“Nah, we’re good. Mr. Stark let us use his credit card. We’ve got the essentials.” Peter looked at the numerous bags spread out around him. “Maybe a little more.”

“ _That’s cool.”_

Totally cool. Tony Stark paid for his underwear. He also bought enough “essentials” to send his aunt into a pride fueled panic.

“It’s fine, May.”

“It’s not fine, Peter.” She stared at the receipt and shook her head. “We are not going to take advantage of his generosity.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Peter sighed. “I’m just saying let him buy us a toothbrush without freaking out.”

“You have nine new shirts.”

“That was all Happy.”

“I’m gonna pay him back. As soon as the insurance company cuts a check, we’re paying him back.”

“…Okay.”

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…I get the feeling that if you two decide to get in a fight over who can afford to buy what, the billionaire is gonna win.”

“We’re paying him back.”

“Okay.”

She eventually let it go. Not really. She just stopped mentioning it, but Peter saw the way her jaw flexed, her nostrils flared every time Tony tried to take control.

Tony saw it, too.

“How stubborn are we talking here? Like on a scale of Happy to Thor’s hammer …..how likely am I to get my way with your aunt?”

“She’s worse than you.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s your funeral.”

Tony decided to play it smart and let Pepper deal with May.

* * *

Things sort of moved in a sluggish sense of surrealness after that, or at least for the next few days. Peter ate cereal with Captain America, he went back to school, got a temporary pass on all his homework, and got to see May try to accept the fact that she now lived down the hall from what equated to a real-life, modern-day Jekyll and Hyde.

Unfortunately, her reaction wasn’t what Peter had expected.

“He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?”

“He turns into a ginormous green rage machine, like, a literal representation of anger.”

“Don’t be rude.”

“It’s not like it’s a secret, May. Everybody knows.”

“Bruce is a sweetheart. I can see why you like him.”

“That is not why I like him. I promise you.”

May meeting Steve Rogers didn’t exactly go as Peter had pictured it either.

It started with training, something to help distract from the fact that they were pretty much homeless. Sort of.

Peter was wearing a pair of Tony’s sweats and an old t-shirt. He was barefoot, web shooters on his wrist, fingers flexing as he bounced on his feet.

Steve was sat on a work bench.

May was frowning.

“He’s not going to, like, break you or anything, right?” she asked Peter, arms crossed over her chest as she watched America’s hero remove his shoes.

“I’m a lot stronger than I look.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“It’ll be fine, May,” Peter said. “We’ve done this before.”

“He’s bigger than you, sweetie,” she whispered, like it was a secret.

“Everyone’s bigger than me, May.” And yeah, ugh. “I’ll be fine.”

“Just be careful.”

Peter was pretty sure May’s definition of being careful didn’t include trash talking Captain America.

“Are you even trying? I distinctly remember this being harder the first time around.”

Steve smirked, rolled his shoulders, and brought his hands back up. “Believe it or not, I went easy on you the first time.”

“Dude, you dropped a loading bridge on me.”

“You stole my shield.”

“I feel those two things aren’t equal in severity.” Peter jumped out of the way, his webbing pulling him clear of Steve’s reach. “Like, from my point of view, you overreacted.”

“I overreacted?”

“Just a smidge.”

Steve laughed, swung a heavy fist and caught Peter on the shoulder. Peter retaliated by wrapping Steve’s fist in a sticky web.

“What is--,” Steve shook his hand, face crumpling into a confused little frown as he tried and failed to pick the webbing off. He looked at Peter gestured to his hand with a “really?” kind of grimace.

“Something wrong, Cap?” Peter asked, tongue tucked between his teeth. “Weren’t you just saying something about being able to take me out with one hand tied behind your back?”

Steve raised his fists, web and all. “Bring it Spider-Boy.”

“It’s spider-Man,” Peter sighed. “Come on.”

“You’re like twelve.”

“Sixteen and don’t even start. I’ve seen pics of you before you got all juiced up. I might be small now, but like you said, I’m young. At least I have a chance of finishing puberty.”

Steve frowned, placed a hand playfully over his heart, and said, “Ouch.”

Then he finally caught Peter.

And it was Peter’s turn to say ouch.

* * *

“How ya doing, slugger?”

Peter dropped the icepack and glared at his aunt. “I know you think you’re being funny, but you’re really not.”

May wrinkled her nose and tried to suppress her smile. “Do you want me to go beat him up for you?”

“You against Captain America?”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I’ve got a pretty mean swing. Just ask Stacy Ramirez.”

“Who’s Stacy Ramirez?”

“My tenth grade nightmare,” May answered distractedly. She grabbed Peter’s chin and tilted his head to the side so she could look at the bruising on his cheek. “This doesn’t look _too_ bad. Considering.”

“I think he was pulling his punches.”

“Lucky you,” she deadpanned. “I guess they don’t really teach them to take it easy in the Army do they. I mean, they teach ‘em to go all in, huh?” She made a little punching motion in the air and bit her lip.

“Maybe,” Peter shrugged, “but I’m pretty sure Cap learned how to ‘go all in’ long before he left Brooklyn.”

May grinned, gave a shrug that roughly translated to _probably_ , and gently placed the icepack back on the bruise. She gave Peter’s uninjured cheek a loving pat and was just about to walk away before her eyes suddenly widened.

“Steve Rogers.”

Peter frowned. “What?”

“He’s from Brooklyn.”

“Yeah…”

“Steve from Brooklyn,” May said calmly, arms folding across her chest.

“Yeah. It’s on his Wikipedia page—where are you going?” he asked as she turned on her heel and determinedly marched out the door. “May?”

Peter found out where she went fifteen minutes later when Captain America walked into the kitchen, his head ducked towards the ground, expression sheepish.

He stood across from Peter, rubbed his hand along the back of his neck and said, “I’ve been informed I owe you an apology.”

“For what?” Peter pointed at his bruised cheek and asked, “For this? Because dude, that was--,”

“Germany,” Steve cut in.

Peter frowned. Germany was over a year ago, and Peter wasn’t even mad about that. Why would…

But then Peter remembered, almost like a strange sense of Déjà vu, the way his Aunt had fussed over a black eye and demanded to know who had done it.

_“Who was it? Who hit you?”_

_“Some guy…”_

_“What’s “some guy’s” name?”_

_“Uhh…Steve!”_

_“Steve? From 12-C? With the overbite?”_

_“No, no no, you don’t know him. He’s from Brooklyn.”_

Okay, technically it hadn’t been a lie. But looking at the way the captain’s face twisted in a weird combination of amused guilt, Peter was starting to think lying might have been better.

“Please tell me my aunt did not yell at you.”

“I wouldn’t call it yelling…” Steve said, face almost a wince with a trace of a smile.

“Dude,” Peter whispered, closing his eyes and letting his forehead bang against the counter. Maybe if he hit it hard enough he could pretend this wasn’t happening. “I am so, so sorry.”

“She’s a very… _impressive_ woman.”

Peter was mortified.

Tony was ecstatic.

“Heard your Aunt yelled at Cap.”

“She didn’t yell,” Peter informed him, squeezing chocolate syrup into two large glasses of milk. “It was more of a stern talking to.”

“I’ve been on the receiving end of one of your aunt’s _talking to’_ s,” Tony said, smile wide as he accepted one of the glasses and began to stir. “There’s still a lot of yelling.”

He wasn’t wrong. “Yeah…can we not talk about it?”

“Kid, don’t fret,” Tony assured him. He took a large gulp of milk, sighed, and wiped away the chocolatey mustache. “Pretty sure getting your balls busted by May Parker is like a rite of passage. The Cap’s a big boy, he can handle it.”

“She made him apologise.”

Tony chuckled as he took another sip. “Yeah, she did.”

* * *

It was three days later before Tony finally heard back from the fire chief.

What hadn’t been savaged by the fire was pretty much destroyed by the water. The whole building wreaked of smoke and mold and something distinctly chemical. It set Peter’s gag reflex off and made his eyes burn.

They’d brought a few laundry baskets, two to be exact, to toss in everything they were going to save.

They barely filled one.

They found Peter’s suit. It was soaked and smelled something fierce, but mostly unharmed. Tony assured him he could fix it.

May managed to uncover a fire-proof safe box that held all the important things; birth certificates, social security cards, guardianship papers, family photos—that sort of thing.

She found her wedding ring.

But that was it.

“It’s just things,” Peter reminded her, fingers gripping the edge of the plastic laundry basket so tightly the handles cracked. “Just an apartment.”

May wiped away a tear, adjusted the ring on her finger, and smiled. It was a sad smile, but it was still a smile. “Just an apartment.”

Peter smiled back. “We’ll be okay.”

Tony clapped them both on the shoulder. “Yeah you will.” He gave their shoulders a tight squeeze and then pulled on his sunglasses. “Now come on, we’ve got a new apartment to buy.”

May frowned. “Tony…”

Tony didn’t buy the apartment, but he did set them up with the best real estate agent in New York.

“You’re sure you want to stay in Queens?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then…”

In Peter’s opinion, trying to buy a new home was almost as traumatizing as losing the first one. It wasn’t as simple as finding one you liked and writing a check.

There was so much paper work.

Like so much.

It gave Peter anxiety and he wasn’t even the one signing any of it.

Then there was the issue of school zones and number of bedrooms and bathrooms and whether it had room for a washing machine or did it have maintenance fees, were they going to have to park on the street, how far was the subway? One question right after the other and Peter found himself hating the entire process.

He just wanted their old apartment back. He wanted to listen to creaky floorboards and snuggle in his bunkbed.

“Just look at it as an adventure,” May said, her voice full of fake excitement. “It’s a chance for a clean slate, we get to start over.”

Except neither one of them wanted to start over, and they both knew it.

But they couldn’t really complain, or at least it _felt_ like they couldn’t. Everyone kept pointing out how lucky they were to have survived, how fortunate they were that Mr. Stark was giving them a place to stay.

“You’re allowed to be pissed, kid,” Tony informed him one night. “People don’t get to dictate your pain.”

Peter was lying on his bed, his arm covering his eyes. “You going to therapy again?”

“I’m serious. No one died, but you still lost your home.”

Peter felt something soft and light land on his stomach. He opened his eyes to see his suit’s mask looking up at him, all traces of soot and mold gone.

He looked up at Tony who was busy playing with one of Peter’s web shooters. “You want to grieve? Grieve. Blow off some steam. Climb to the highest building, do a back flip off and scream Geronimo if that helps.” He pressed something he shouldn’t have, shot a web onto the light fixture, winced, and tossed the web shooter to Peter. “No one’s gonna judge you.”

Ben was an adrenaline junkie. Peter’s dad was, too, or so he was told. He’d seen pictures of the two when they were younger; skydiving, bungee jumping, dirt bike racing.

“It was an addiction,” May had explained. “Like a natural high. I just couldn’t understand it.”

Peter could.

It was like flying. Like giving gravity the middle finger as he swung from one building to the next, his stomach fluttering, the wind thundering in his ears.

A natural high.

And Peter loved it.

He flew through Times Square, followed 47th before circling back up towards the Rockefeller Center. Manhattan was different from Queens. The buildings were bigger, the lights seemingly brighter.

The people louder.

He loved it.

All of it.

It was well into the night before he made it back to the tower.

Tony was in his workshop, a screwdriver held between his teeth, eyes narrowed as he worked a soldering iron along a circuit board. He glanced up when Peter walked in, took one look at the sweaty hair and flushed cheeks and asked, “Better?”

Peter just grinned. 

* * *

The new apartment was definitely bigger than the last. It still only had one bathroom, but they now had a special area specifically designated for a dining table, so yeah, there was that.

“Corner apartment, means two fire escapes,” Tony pointed out as he walked from room to room. “If you don’t use them for fires, it’ll at least make it easier for the wunderkind to sneak back in.”

Peter smiled when May rolled her eyes.

“He could just use the front door.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the new neighbors won’t notice Spider-Man taking the elevator.”

There wasn’t really a moving _day._ Not really. On Friday, they had furniture delivered. Nothing fancy, just a new sofa, some dressers, a TV and something to put it on.

And beds-- a queen for May and a new bunkbed for Peter.

“Haven’t you outgrown those?”

“Can you outgrow those?”

“The answer is yes.”

The ‘dining room’ was still empty.

On Saturday, they packed everything they’d accumulated since the fire and moved it from the tower to their new home. It wasn’t as much as they thought. Peter’s new clothes took up a few inches of his closet and exactly one drawer in his new dresser.

May grabbed a disposable cup to hold their toothbrushes. It looked kind of pitiful sitting there all alone on the bathroom sink.

It was a work in progress. A slow one. They didn’t really realize what they didn’t have until they needed it, and then it was a rush, a sort of frantic race to get it, to make everything normal, because everything had to be okay now.

It was going to be okay.

They bought a trash can when they realized they couldn’t stack takeaway boxes on the counter. They bought a vacuum and a broom when may spilt popcorn kernels on the floor and they had to ‘sweep’ them up with their fingers and a dirty shirt. Shower curtain, light bulbs, extension cords, one thing after another.

They bought new dishes once they ran out of paper plates.

They bought a first-aid kit when Peter came home bleeding, dripping blood on their new floor.

“It’s okay, May.”

“Blood is supposed to be on the inside, sweetie. Says so in the user manual.”

“It’s just a little cut, it’ll stop bleeding in a minute.”

“If you say so.”

“You look like you’re about to freak out.”

“But _am_ I freaking out?”

“No.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay.”

And they would be okay, it was a given. They’d survived worse. Life would eventually get back to normal, Peter knew it would. He knew that one day they’d be able to talk about it and not feel like throwing up.

Right now though, it was like playing pretend, going through the motions, following the script because that’s what they were supposed to do.

Peter went to school and May went to work.

They ordered Thai food and pizza, binge watched Netflix, and avoided their new neighbors. Perfectly normal.

It was over a month after they’d moved in when May decided to bake a batch of cookies, which she was good at.

As long as Peter remembered to set the timer.

Which he sometimes forgot.

The new smoke alarm sounded just like their old one, the same beep-beep-beep that had echoed through the apartment before Ben had removed the batteries.

Peter had never heard a more terrifying sound.

But it was okay, it wasn’t the end of their world. Not again.

May ran to the kitchen to turn off the oven while Peter jumped onto the ceiling to turn off the smoke alarm.

It was a quick little press of a button and the beep-beep-beeping stopped. Peter sighed, smiled, and then looked down at his aunt.

May was standing there, oven mitted hands on her hips as she stared up at Peter, her head tilted to the side.

“Okay, I’ll admit it, _that_ little trick is gonna come in handy.”


End file.
